F*cking Fitted Sheets!

F*cking Fitted Sheets!

Bitch-ass fitted sheet

I’ve never minded doing housework. Sometimes, I actually enjoy it. There’s a certain gratification that comes from cleaning. Even if it doesn’t last, a clean room is satisfying to admire. Cleaning offers an immediate sense of achievement I don’t get to feel in any other area of my life. And it’s so simple. Something is dirty, you clean it. It looks clean. It is clean. Done. There is no gray area. Until it gets dirty again, of course.

Cleaning also provides me with much needed relief from my anxiety. Since my OCD does not allow me to relax until everything is in its proper place, cleaning for me is necessary. In a chaotic world, cleaning provides me with a way to take back control, if only of my kitchen.

It’s a good thing I sort-of enjoy cleaning. For even if I could afford the best housekeeper in the world, I could not handle someone else touching my things—even if that someone were touching them with a dust rag or sponge. I have a hard enough time with my family putting their gross hands on countertops and faucets and other surfaces in my house. But a complete stranger? I couldn’t bear it. The housekeeper could wear a hazmat suit. I’d still wonder if they cleaned the bathroom and the kitchen with the same dirty cloth, or picked their nose and then opened the refrigerator, or used my toothbrush to scrub the toilet. I’m sure that NEVER happens, but still.

So I will happily polish, dust, scrub and vacuum every room of my house without help. There is only one chore loathe. Only one chore, for which despite my OCD, I would welcome even a homeless leper suffering from the flu to do for me: Putting the fucking fitted sheet on the bed.

There’s a sock under there somewhere.

I’ve lost too many nails, suffered too many bumps and bruises. I just know that when I die, it will be at the threads of the fitted sheet. There are a number of ways I see this playing out. I could:

A) Suffocate between the fitted sheet and mattress while trying in vain to extract the rogue sock that somehow ended up under the fitted sheet in the middle of the bed.

B) Break my neck wedged between the bed and the wall while trying to secure the fitted sheet over the headboard side of the mattress.

C) Throw myself out the window after trying for an hour in vain to get the short side of the sheet over the long side of the bed.

D) Hang myself with the fitted sheet after one too many futile attempts to get the final corner of the sheet to stretch far enough.

I don’t want to die putting a fitted sheet on a bed. That would be a terrible and embarrassing way to go. So in the interest of self-preservation, I’ve enacted a new rule in our house: When Mom is cleaning, stay out of her way. But if Mom is handling a fitted sheet, there must always, no exceptions, be another adult present in the room.

 


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